


Go Again

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:43:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Trap, in which Mycroft is in love and Lestrade is pretty sure he's trapped.  This is the happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Again

*********

Lestrade swept his hand along the countertop, as if he could sweep the sunlight to the floor. It felt heavy enough, against his skin, to spill like some strange, thick syrup onto the night-cooled tile.

Too early to get dressed for work, if it were his day on. Too early for anything at all, and he’d been awake an hour already. He swept his hand back, looking absently out the window. There were a hundred things he could be doing. Well, thirty, at current count. And making coffee was first among them.

He did nothing.

He’d done a lot of that, lately.

*********

The sheets had twisted and bunched under his body, digging into his back and leaving him to lie as though he’d been flung down, a discarded doll, limbs scattered. Sweat was already drying on his face; sweat, and saliva, from when he’d bit and sucked painfully on his lower lip.

He was sure he’d feel something--old friend shame, perhaps, or something more bitter and mocking--if he weren’t so damned tired.

A bad idea, to try to sleep in the bed. He’d spent the last month on the sofa, which hadn’t necessarily been the best option but Lestrade couldn’t afford to move, not because of a few dreams. Memories. Whatever. He pressed his palms against his eyes so that light burst under the lids.

He’d washed everything a dozen times and the pillows still smelled like--

Lestrade sat up and threw a pillow across the room in one swift, coordinated, ridiculous movement, and felt triumphant even when a muscle in his shoulder twanged. It was ridiculous. It was entirely ridiculous.

But he got up and took care of himself in the bathroom, almost mechanically, not thinking about anyone or anything until he was, and biting his lip again at the sweet tactile memory of gentle, teasing hands stroking him lightly, too lightly, until his hips had left the bed and his voice had broken in a cry--

And always, always, the memory intruded, snatching any satisfaction or comfort and leaving him aching, exhausted and bruised in some invisible place.

“I love you.”

*********

It should have left him relieved, how completely and effortlessly Mycroft had disappeared. Five weeks since their last encounter, out on Baker Street. Lestrade brought his fist down on the stapler with an ultimately unsatisfying thump.

“Trying to break it or your hand, sir?” Donovan asked, peering in at the door. “Trial tomorrow, remember?”

God. Lestrade shut his eyes. “Sergeant. I will remember to wear a tie.” He opened them in time to see Donovan’s highly offended expression turning away and grimaced. Nothing so contagious as a bad mood.

If he could just fucking sleep. One night. Catnaps here and there, coffee enough to drown a man--nothing made up for it. His kingdom for a full night’s rest. Lestrade snorted; tried to hide it behind the paperwork. Maybe that’s why sleep wasn’t taking his offer. His kingdom had never been much, but it had really taken a beating lately.

And his wearied, circling thoughts crashed right back into Mycroft. Five weeks. Break up with anyone else in the world and he’d run into them on every street corner, in every bloody shop. Be stuck behind them in the queue. And if he was honest, he would have admitted the idea made sweat break out at his hairline, and panic twitch faintly at his spine, because to run into Mycroft Holmes anywhere meant that he had meant you to, and if Mycroft Holmes meant to run into Lestrade--

If he was honest, really honest, he’d admit to himself why he was thinking about it. But that was entirely too much honesty on entirely too little sleep.

One night. He didn’t realize until he heard the thunk and felt the dull pain in his forehead that he had slumped onto his desk. Again.

*********

Sherlock fairly vibrated with irritation. “You turned your mobile off.”

“I was testifying,” Lestrade said again, twisting his tie around in both hands, wondering why the hell he hadn’t just gone home. “I’d’ve answered tomorrow.”

“Why do they wait so long to try these things?” Dr. Watson asked, his attention mostly on Sherlock, but an extra worry line creased his forehead as he took in the circles that looked like bruises under Lestrade’s eyes. There wasn’t much he could do about them. He’d tried putting cucumbers on them; he remembered hearing somewhere that it helped.

“Lets the emotions ‘round it fade, so that we’re presenting facts. Hopefully,” Lestrade added as an afterthought. Sherlock snorted and stalked out of the office, back to texting. Lestrade decided to leave his mobile off for the night.

“So,” Dr. Watson said, clearly torn between going after Sherlock and offering some professional opinion on the inadvisability of Lestrade operating heavy machinery.

He waved a hand irritably and snapped, “Go on, get out of here, so I can go home and get some sleep.”

“You will?” the doctor said, standing up. Lestrade waved him away again, scowling.

*********

He put in for vacation the next day.

It was point one on a list he hadn’t admitted to himself he’d made.

He ducked into a little shop just as the rain hit, still distracting himself from what some part of his mind knew he was going to do next. It was an ugly, intermittent, gray sort of rain; no romance whatsoever. The thought made him smile and so he bit his lip, worrying it just a bit.

In the end he bought a yellow umbrella, a bright, cheap, tiny thing, and stamped back out into the rain with a vicious and ridiculous satisfaction that had him laughing all the way home.

Where he showered, ate something that was recognisably food, and slept.

*********

It was impossible to run into Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade fairly sauntered down a small street with an outdoor cafe, letting the ridiculous umbrella swing freely in his hand. They’d had lunch here; years ago, it felt like. For a moment, his throat tightened.

It was like visiting the scene of a crime--no. It was visiting a site that would see a crime, if information received was correct. He stopped for a coffee and watched the street for a minute, wishing he could just light a bloody cigarette.

He was no psychologist, except inasmuch as any inspector worth a salary was. And he was fairly certain a psychologist couldn’t analyze himself. Too close to the case, as it were.

He had no option but to go about this like a Yarder, like a detective inspector.

The waitress was a sweet young thing with a laugh like a kid torturing a trumpet. It made Lestrade smile. He stayed a mite longer and ordered a bit of cake, too.

*********

Another cafe, two restaurants--only the two, as it felt strange to be there by himself--and now the small bookshop with the near-sentient dust. Lestrade laid his trail piece by piece, step by step. When he was feeling particularly stroppy he’d bring the yellow umbrella.

He flipped a book open and sneezed. The elderly woman behind the counter glared at him over her red, plastic-rimmed glasses.

The wet and rather miserable morning had given way to a weakly bright afternoon, and Lestrade fidgeted with the umbrella he’d brought strictly for use. At least at the restaurants he’d been able to eat. He couldn’t imagine what the old lady would do if someone were to get out so much as a stick of gum.

Somewhere, in the thick, dusty silence, was a clock with the world’s most obnoxiously loud tick. Lestrade had spent the first few minutes looking for it, before finding it behind what must have been the Russian pile, propped up against the Russian bookcase. It wasn’t telling the correct time. Maybe the old lady kept it for company.

Maybe he was making a fool of himself. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time. Or the worst.

When ten minutes had gone by, Lestrade hurried back out onto the street, sneezing three times in succession.

*********

The museum may have been cheating, but Lestrade was only patient when he was certain, as he was so painfully not. The ink splotches were as splotchy as he remembered, and the pots as... potty.

He blinked hard and bit the inside of his cheek. Probably he hadn’t caught up on sleep yet.

Sunlight fell heavily through the big western windows, as cheery as the umbrella he still held in his hand, tapping it in a nervous rhythm against the side of his knee. Twice now someone had gone by with a cane, and Lestrade’s heart hadn’t yet fully recovered.

But this was different. Far off yet, but distinct. Not a cane; too long between taps for that. At every other step or so, indicating a swift, steady pace. Lestrade smelled ozone; felt like lightning was about to strike.

Mycroft stood at the far end of the room, looking for all the world as if he were interested in the damned stupid pots, and if he hadn’t seen them and studied them at length only a few months before Lestrade might have believed it. His throat closed up.

He had been watching.

The umbrella slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and he registered the sound as it clattered to the floor, but it was meaningless. Mycroft had not turned; had not moved. Lestrade’s eyes moved hungrily over those straight shoulders, and those long, elegant legs. Dizziness, desire and fear, and something ever-present and stranger. Affection, maybe. If he had to name it.

But it was almost enough just to see him again, and affection was not the word.

Every step echoed in his skull, as if his body were completely hollowed out. He couldn’t look away; couldn’t risk the completely irrational and yet, because this was Mycroft Holmes, also entirely rational fear that he might slip away as soon as Lestrade’s gaze rested elsewhere.

And for all the old, reflexive, deeply ingrained feelings surging up from where he’d buried them deep in his brain, but apparently not deep enough, Lestrade could not bear a single lonely second more.

*********

“You could have phoned.”

Mycroft’s voice was soft and even, almost gentle, as if he believed Lestrade would run, after having worked so hard for this.

“Could I?” he asked, honestly wondering. He had flat-out accused the man of holding him hostage. Lestrade would have let himself ring through to voicemail at the very best.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, quiet and almost ashamed, though his shoulders were still straight and strong. And that was enough, wasn’t it? Lestrade breathed in shakily.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling so horrifyingly inadequate that he almost missed the choked-off noise Mycroft made, and the way his hand flew to his face, hiding his expression from Lestrade. He even turned away, and it was all Lestrade could do not to touch his arm, even as some part of him begged him to let it be, to let it go. He couldn’t. That was why he was here.

“We can’t do this here,” Mycroft said, and started walking. Lestrade hurried to keep up.

They were in the car park when Mycroft stopped dead. “I have no idea where to go,” he said abruptly.

“Neutral ground?” Lestrade offered.

“There is no such thing,” Mycroft said flatly. His knuckles were white as he clutched at the handle of his umbrella.

“Come back to the flat, then.” When Mycroft didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him, Lestrade added, “Please.”

It wasn’t fair, but he wasn’t trying to be.

*********

The car was sleek and black, but small, and there was no driver. Mycroft hesitated--and Lestrade felt as if the world must have stopped--but he got in, settling behind into the driver’s seat and staring resolutely forward.

The ride was short and silent. The walk to the flat was the same. Tension bit into Lestrade’s limbs and he held himself ready, always, for Mycroft to turn sharply away, to abandon a situation too odd and terrible for someone like him to bear.

But he didn’t. Something warm and rough tingled just under Lestrade’s skin.

Lestrade had always underestimated him.

He invited Mycroft wordlessly into the kitchen, and could have applauded the way the man did not flinch. He was taking hit after hit, and just standing up under it.

That old, reflexive panic stayed curled deep, at the base of his spine. It felt strange and cumbersome, especially so when Mycroft stood by the counter, his shoulders suddenly slumping under some unarticulated defeat.

Lestrade drew in a breath to speak, to explain himself, however badly that would go, but Mycroft interrupted immediately. “No, don’t. You mustn’t.”

“Mustn’t what?” Lestrade asked, watching Mycroft’s hands twist ‘round the umbrella’s handle. “Apologise?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth. In astonishment, Lestrade ducked forward to read the expression on Mycroft’s down-turned face. His eyes were shut tight, but he opened them with a shuddering breath that seemed to take all the oxygen from the room. “I should apologise. I didn’t realise--”

“You bloody idiot,” Lestrade snapped, a touch of iciness licking at his back, but he ignored it for the sick feeling that churned in his stomach. “You haven’t a thing to apologise for!”

“I should have realised where your stress lay, and sought to address it--”

“You should have realised?” Lestrade fairly shouted it, astonishment and horror roiling within him. Mycroft’s face was frozen in a rictus of pain; he held tight to his umbrella and spoke clearly and calmly, as if giving evidence.

“Obviously it couldn’t have been stress from your job; had that been the case, you wouldn’t have lasted a year as--”

Lestrade crossed the space between them and took Mycroft by the shoulders, shaking him once. “Stop it.”

The umbrella moved with remarkable swiftness. The point was cold against Lestrade’s throat. “Let go of me.”

They stared at each other, frozen in time, or falling back through it. They hadn’t been so close in months. Lestrade let go, but his hands trailed down Mycroft’s arms, then moving to his waist as if compelled. He held him lightly again, aware of each breath, each passing second.

Then Mycroft let the umbrella fall just a little, and Lestrade leaned forward, kissing him slowly and carefully. His stomach still churned and hysteria loomed in the back of his mind, but the rest of him was warm, and when Mycroft’s eyes closed and he returned the kiss Lestrade felt every nerve in his body come alive.

The umbrella dropped, clattering to the floor, and the kiss turned fierce and hungry as Mycroft’s arms wrapped ‘round his shoulders, hands tangling themselves into the short strands of hair at the back of Lestrade’s skull. He pushed forward, pressing himself fully against Mycroft, reveling in the well-remembered give and take of strength.

He clutched Mycroft close and said harshly into his ear, “I was afraid of you, and I didn’t trust you, but I wanted you and I never hated you and I want you more than anything in the world, god help me.”

Mycroft hid his face in Lestrade’s shoulder and said nothing, his grip loosening. Lestrade held on even tighter.

“I was afraid. I don’t--I don’t do it well.”

And Mycroft laughed at that, a choked, quiet gasp against his neck.

Lestrade whispered, “I’m afraid now.”

That made Mycroft look at him, take his chin in hand and hold him still for perusal. Lestrade breathed in shakily while Mycroft’s eyes took in every detail of his expression.

“You are,” Mycroft said, in an almost wondering tone. Something that could, in the fullness of time, become a smile touched his lips. “But you’re doing it wonderfully.”

Lestrade kissed him again, and again; small, unhurried caresses that felt more comforting than anything else. Kind, maybe. Affectionate.

“I love you,” he admitted, finally, though it hurt to say it, so much pressure had built up in his chest and throat.

Mycroft sighed and rested his forehead against Lestrade’s, eyes still closed. “Perhaps we should try again.”

“Perhaps?” Lestrade repeated, unable to keep his hands from clutching Mycroft more tightly.

*********

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is the requested happy ending. I hope it works?
> 
> I like to think of the purchase of the yellow umbrella as the return of G. "Drugs Bust" Lestrade, if you're wondering about characterization.
> 
> Not beta-ed or Brit-picked, because I may have written a happy ending but I'm still a terrible person.


End file.
